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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158497">Booety-Tick</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/atmilliways'>atmilliways</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Cake, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Arrangement (Good Omens), Good Omens Reverse AU, Mr. Young is the Ambassador to Swindon, Other, There is no sbice here alas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:27:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/atmilliways</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in a brightly lit, starkly furnished London flat, a phone was blaring an 8-bit version of “Moth into Flame” by Metallica. The angel Crowley sighed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callus_Ran/gifts">Callus_Ran</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by a combination of Aziramoth and Crowlamp from Ran's reverse omens au (<a href="https://ran196242.tumblr.com/post/611678325301264384/i-got-encouraged-to-draw-more-concepts-for">here</a> and <a href="https://ran196242.tumblr.com/post/611654905801900032/ran196242-ran196242-okay-i-really-thought">here</a>), and this image of Aziraphale sharing cake (<a href="https://ran196242.tumblr.com/post/616932598101557248/an-angel-and-a-demon-in-quarantine-happy-30th">here</a>). </p>
<p>Also, Ran knows what I mean by <i>sbice</i>. Hope you like this! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Somewhere in a brightly lit, starkly furnished London flat, a phone was blaring an 8-bit version of “Moth into Flame” by Metallica. The angel Crowley sighed; he hadn’t set the ringtone and generally disapproved of phones that played music instead of ringing </span>
  <em>
    <span>properly</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but so far the contraption has resisted all of his attempts to change the setting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snapped his fingers to retrieve the phone from the deep right pocket of his coat, hung on a hook at the other end of the flat, and flipped it open. “Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t you going to ask who’s calling?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Azira,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes, “you’re the only one who has this number. Who else would it be?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bright little laugh trickled through the connection. “Oh, you and your gloomy objections to being mannerly. At any rate, I’m glad I caught you. I ordered the most </span>
  <em>
    <span>infernal</span>
  </em>
  <span> little cake, it’s amazing and you just have to try it. Would you be up for a spot of company?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley hesitated, free hand reaching absently to toy with the golden Evil Eye charm hanging at his throat. He had already accepted that his plans to go out and bless small local charities around the world would be delayed by this call; if he let Azira invite himself over again, that would likely have to be off for an entire day, possibly two. That would put him past the deadline for his weekly quota of good deeds, but. . . . </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They never checked, Upstairs. That had always bothered Crowley, and he usually tried not to think about it, but they </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> checked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Crowley hedged. “I . . . suppose it couldn’t hurt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent! I’ll be right over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So that was that. Crowley studiously avoided admitting to himself that he did like the prospect of Azira’s company, as rarely as he allowed himself to indulge in it. The demon had a curiously comforting presence about him, for all that he tended to flutter about, and the intensity of his blue-tinged-darkness stare often made Crowley’s insides squirm pleasantly. Sometimes even when he couldn’t see it. Like now, for example. He ignored the sensation, as he had been doing for the past several thousand years, and started to flip the phone closed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he stopped. A single moth, wiggling its legs and antennae popped out of the phone speaker and fluttered towards the nearest lamp. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, for the love of—” Hurriedly, the angel swept up the paperwork scattered across his desk back to the relative safety of a file folder and tossed the phone down on the freshly cleared surface. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the next instant, a cloud of moths burst from the phone with a sound like a hurricane made of vellum. The wind of it lifted Crowley’s long hair from his shoulders, where a few stray moths settled—he could feel them through his shirt like little drops of demonic presence—and began combing at stray red strands with their labial palpi. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amidst the susurrations, the bulk of the moths gathered into a man-sized column across the desk and gently blurred until there was Azira. In his customary white fur coat despite the summer heat, the hedonist. He beamed and set a bakery box still tied up in string on the desk between them. “Hello, my dear. How are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t complain, I suppose,” Crowley muttered, trying to politely brush the remaining moths away before they started nibbling in his clothing. Once, Azira had mentioned something about his holy aura infusing into his clothes in some way that made the fabric, and this was a direct quote, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sbicy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That didn’t seem healthy for a demon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lovely!” Azira was already unboxing the cake and cutting a slice. There was also a tartan thermos and two teacups on the desk that definitely hadn’t been there before: one black with wings forming the handle, and one swirled over with stars and nebulas. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley eyed it and suppressed a smile. “And how are you?” he asked, not in the mood for more polite banter about etiquette. “It’s been. . . . When was the last time, 1790?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or thereabouts. As I recall I sprang you from the Bastille and then we had crepes, your treat. And I’m all the better for your company, my dear.” With a flourish, Azira held up a forkful of cake. “Now, open wide!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You don’t need to feed it to me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Crowley wanted to protest, but then, Azira had hardly needed to take the flashy route and travel by phone line, either. There were a lot of things that, as ethereal and occult brings they didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do, including eating at all. He was just glad that, as he opened his mouth to accept the bite, he still had his specially tinted glasses on and Azira couldn’t see his golden eyes glowing faintly with embarrassment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh Lord, no wonder Gabriel thinks I’m a pushover. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a good cake. A light, brightly lemon-flavored sponge with raspberry filling. . . . His favorite. Angels weren’t supposed to have favorite earthly pleasures, so of course the demon had remembered. Crowley practically melted into the temptation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You like it?” Azira asked softly. Crowley opened his eyes—when had they fluttered closed?—and saw the demon’s matching soft smile. The special smile that Azira seemed always to reserve for just him, a chink in the armor of aggressive good cheer veined with cold, sharp, and unforgiving steel that seemed to come with having Fallen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was that smile that had first convinced Crowley, on the wall above the Eastern Gate of Eden, that Azira might be just good enough to be worth knowing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly it occurred to Crowey that he hadn’t answered the question yet, and the silence was beginning to stretch awkwardly. “. . . Ngk. Yeah, it’s, uh—” he paused to swallow hastily “—booety-tick. Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh I’m so glad,” Azira burbled, happily busying himself with preparing another bite with the perfect ratio of frosting, cake, and filling. “You’re welcome to the entire thing, I bought it on a bit of a whim, you see. Oh. . . . There’s one other thing I </span>
  <em>
    <span>suppose</span>
  </em>
  <span> I ought to tell you about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley opened his mouth to ask what, but found his mouth quickly filled with exquisitely baked goodness. “Hmm?” he managed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Azira began, beginning to look a bit fretful for the first time during the visit, “it’s very small news. Just a little thing, really. It fit in a basket at any rate, and . . . just so happened to be the Anti-Christ, whom I delivered to a satanic convent last night to be sent home with a diplomatic family. The father is Ambassador to Swindon, you see,” he babbled on, “so I’m afraid the Apocalypse is going to be kicked off with a lot of nasty local politics.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Several hours later, when Crowley’s treacherous human corporation had stopped requiring that his head be between his knees to avoid hyperventilating, he decided he was glad that his mouth had been full of cake. Azira, it seemed, had done an infernally good job at planning ahead. It had stopped him from getting out quite a few rude words that he had never said out loud before and wasn’t about to start the End of Days off by saying now. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Crowlamp Moodboard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
    <br/>
  </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jewelry with crystals in the shot are by pamwishbone.com.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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